More Than A Thousand Words
by TemptingTempest
Summary: The tale of the famous painter, Carlisle Cullen, and his life struggle to paint the perfect picture.
1. At First Sight

Author's Note: I do not own any of the Twilight world Mrs. Meyer's created.

I know this story may not be totally compatiable with the Twilight series, but I thought it would be interesting to put Carlisle and some of the other Twilight Characters in a totally different setting and series. This story is inspired by some books by the lovely Tracy Chevalier.

Sunrise is one of the few times of the day that I truly appreciate. It is, as if, the world is frozen for those few enchanting minutes, and everything is at peace. Life under the glow of dawn is an elated form of our human existence. Underneath this light, we are heavenly creatures, even for a few moments. We are augmented from our trivial states of living and raised into this higher level of existence, where we can be Gods and Goddesses in our own palaces, simultaneously with each of our neighbours. We are divine equals at this time, and for a few moments, everything seems invincible and too perfect to ever be destructed.

Reality sinks in soon, however, and our divine kingdoms are shattered once the all-too powerful sun arises in the mighty sky, reminding us of our triviality and inferiority. The peace is broken by the first actions that the sunlight brings, whether it is the sounds of disgruntled apprentices on way to their blacksmith shops, the angry sermons of Priests permeating through cathedrals, or simply the cry of a child, awakening its parents from their few moments of serenity. Under the sunrise, life is too wondrous to be true. It is as if God is taunting man, reminding him of what he could have had for all of eternity if he did not disobey him in that one, unforgivable instance. Ironically enough, it was woman, who provoked man to do so. It was Woman, who brought this burden to all of mankind. And still, to this very day, it is woman, and women, who eventually cause the downfall and collapse of every great man.

As I glance behind me, I gaze at the once divine beauty, who now simply appears like a maiden sleeping. Under the sunrise, she had been illuminated to a modern-day Venus. When I approach her now, I see the small flaws that remind me that she is as imperfect as anything else in my life. Her stomach is round and perhaps a bit too soft than appeals to most. Her legs are stout. Her skin does not resemble fresh cream, and on the contrary, is closer to parchment that simply has faded its sepia colouring by being left out in the summer sunlight for far too long. Imperfections plague the woman that lies in my bed, beneath my sheets, in my bed chamber.

Yet, she took me under her spell with little ease. My eyes dash over the room, searching for the remnant of my attraction to her. I find it sitting on my canvas, the portrait I had finished only a few hours prior to dawn. My lips curl into a small smile as memories flood my overcrowded mind, recalling the few words exchanged, and the hours of sheer ecstasy we shared shortly after.

Pacing over to the bed, I begin to recollect and admire just what caught my eye. She was dark, in body and mind. Her black curls strewn down her back like a veil remind me of how deeply I admired her luscious locks, both from an artist's perspective, and from a man's perspective. Her breasts are divine, large and delectable, as wonderful to depict on canvas as they are to touch and taste. Her body is full and curvaceous, a feast for the eyes when fully undressed. And her skin, though unusual in tone, adds mystery to this exotic woman.

I kissed her tenderly when she awoke, my lips following a path of their own down her delicate neck and strong shoulders, before diving into the crevice dividing her breasts, savouring the feel of each one while I had the opportunity. But as mid-morning arrived, I knew I could no longer keep this woman in my company. I ceased my temptation, rid the woman's words from my mind, and bid her farewell. Before she left, she inquired when the painting would be for sale. I told her I would send it to the main gallery, where they would take care of any more questions she had about me or my paintings. She then asked if she would ever see me again. I looked into her chocolate eyes and replied with a simple "no". It was difficult for her to accept, but I could not lie about matters such as that. The truth is painful, but it is the only way to achieve true freedom.

After she departed, I slowly made my way to my balcony. Gazing out at the city life in Firenze, I wondered how I could have ever journeyed this far from my home. London had blessed me with my talent, but did not allow me to flourish in it. I needed to escape the oppressive tyranny of London, the corruption which began to destroy my love of art and painting. Needless to say, after nearly five years of living in the Italian city, I have never longed to go back.

My eyes now survey the sights below me. The sounds of the daily life were repulsive enough to force me back into my bed chamber, but my eyes caught the figure of Marissa Visconti, the imperfect goddess I had just sent away. She was an intriguing character, to say the very least. Her stay in Firenze was only for a fortnight, all for the purpose of the famous English painter Carlisle Cullen to do a portrait of her. Initially I consented out of interest, wondering what Lorenzo Medici would think of a Visconti offspring living in his city for a few days. Her attraction captivated me, however, and I absorbed myself fully, body and mind, in Marissa while I painted her.

Perhaps it is an artist's burden, to become so engulfed with an idea or with an image, which the entire world stops. With Marissa, the whole world stopped for a few of those days as I became entirely consumed by the painting, and the story I brought to art. The colours spoke to me, blending naturally and forcibly to explain the emotions she expressed, and even some of the emotions I experienced with her. None of them were new, of course. With each woman, many emotions are provoked in which I have grown so accustomed to, I barely notice until they leave me. The emotions, that is. Women come and go, and that is a part of my life I have grown to accept. But I have always wondered about the spectrum of emotions that I have still not experienced yet. Emotions, in my belief, are like shades and colours; there are so many, and when certain ones blend together, they can create something extremely powerful and formidable. Of course, not all colours blend to create a new, beautiful shade. Some blend and form atrocious colours, which should never be used even when painting the angriest of paintings. Still, there is that never-ending thought within my mind that imagines perhaps one day, with one woman, an entirely new part of me will be opened, where these emotions will be created and blended into something I have never experienced, nor cannot contain.

My thoughts are futile, I have come to accept. As romantic as my mind can be, it is idealist, and certainly not in touch with the reality I will face each day. Women are useful for two things; images for painting, and making love. It has been proven over time that women have been the factors to cause men to collapse when too closely intricate into their lives, and thus, I shall never allow a woman to participate in my life other than when I need her for one of the two tasks she is strong at.

I sigh, growing tired of the same sights and sounds I witness each day. There is Mazzini arguing with the market man over his price for fresh fish; A frustrated mother carries her infant through the throngs of self-interested shoppers en route to morning mass; a few young boys torment the mass of pigeons that seek refuge in the center of the square. Nothing out of the ordinary...nothing of interest to me.

That was, of course, until my eyes rush to the frame of an unfamiliar young woman. She is strange, almost exotic in appearance. Her hair is almost entirely covered up by a crimson veil, but the few strands framing her face signal that is it not dark; rather, it is a handsome auburn. Her frame is lean, her arms appearing to be strong as she lifts up a rather large case of something from one of the market stands. Her skin is not pale, but rather smooth and evenly toned, untouched by the sun. She is exquisite, and though my mind reminds me that my eyes could very well be deceiving me, I banish the thought. This woman will not be gone from my memory until she is in my presence. This woman has immediately enchanted me. And soon, I know that this woman will be the subject of my next work.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been nearly a month since I seen her in the market square. Her image haunted my memory, yet I did nothing to erase her from my mind. As much as I craved her, I did nothing to pursue her. She had paralyzed me, in body, mind, and work.

Since the vision, I had been engulfed into a particularly extravagant downward spiral. I took several women during those ways, searching for something that I could not find in anyone else but her. I absorbed their bodies with all of my senses, trying to replicate the initial, heartbreakingly powerful feeling that came over me when I saw her in her crimson veil sweep through the square. As much as the women wanted, and almost ached, for my affection, I could not give them anything more than what they had provided me with; nothing.

Days would be spent searching for inspiration from one of my temporary muses. I searched in all forms, all shapes, all colours, all styles, all societal classes... anything to try to replace and replicate the emotions and sheer dominance she had asserted over me. With my days filled with false inspiration and my nights filled with meaningless personal fulfillment, I found it incredibly difficult to simply wake up in the morning. Soon, I banished anyone from my home, including my bedchamber.

I was in a state of dejection I had never experienced before. It was not as if I had experienced the pains that melancholy brought, and I was quite accustomed to an uncommitted lifestyle. Yet, this emotional state had always brought me further inspiration. My body and soul weakened in this state, yet my art usually flourished with each catharsis induced by this emotional turbulence. This time, however, was utterly painful and intolerable. All I was experiencing was the pain of loss. I did not even know this woman's name, and yet, I was wholly obsessed with her image that haunted me all hours of the day.

My seclusion began to worry some people. Many were aware of the "eccentricities" I possessed, but hardly knew this side of me. During this time, several people attempted to visit me, men, women, and children. I would not, and could not, allow them to see me. They did not deserve to see me like this. I was accustomed to showing the facade of who I was; I could never reveal the truth, the sincere emotions that I experienced. Yet, I allowed one visitor on sporadic occasion, a visitor who perhaps knew me best. Edward Mason, a wealthy land owner and one of Firenze's well respected businessmen had taken me refuge upon my fateful arrival into the Italian city. He had seen me perhaps at my worst state or one of my worst states as I took my current condition into evaluation. I took great trust in this man after learning of his humble beginnings in Cornwall. I could relate to the man, while still holding him in the highest respect. He and his beautiful wife, Isabella, had offered one of their estates in the city for a peasant's earnings. Why they did this, I would never understand. Yet, I knew I would be forever in debt to this man, this friend, this saint.

Upon one particular visit, his reassurance translated quickly from appeasement to cautionary words, as he spoke about what the city was beginning to say. One of the reasons why I treasured Edward as a friend was for the fact that when I would ignore his sympathies long enough, he would speak strictly and soundly. And to my dismay, I would usually end up disregarding my own stubbornness and follow the words of this wise man.

"Carlisle, this needs to end. The entire city is beginning to speak, and their words are quickly becoming unkind," Edward warned, trying to grasp the goblet of pungent red wine from me.

"And why would I give a damn about what people are saying? It is not their place to criticize or judge me!" I exclaimed, the copious amounts of wine obviously having a predominant effect on my conduct.

Edward just sighed and ran a hand through his unruly, extravagant bronze tresses.

"Your income relies on these people. Your reputation relies on these people. Would you really want to sacrifice it all for a few intoxicated evenings?" he shot back. Edward was rational while I was an idealist at heart. He did not think with his emotions, and I rarely thought with my mind. He did not understand this attachment I had towards this woman.

"I will find a way to pay the rent, Edward. You know I always find some means of supporting myself," I told him, though I knew that was not his point.

"You simply- you just do not understand what I am going through. I cannot see anyone right now. I can barely hold a conversation with you without memories-"I tried to explain, before I realized I had said too much, and Edward interjected.

"Memories? Memories of what?" he inquired, his voice softer with concern.

I knew I was cornered. I could not simply deny anything I had said; Edward knew me far too well for that. I had to explain to him my obsession. He was always full of advice, so perhaps he could guide me into a new, more productive direction with the problem.

"A woman. I saw her in the market one morning many days ago, and I-"I began, before Edward interrupted, looking furious at me.

"This is all about a woman?! For Christ's sake, Carlisle! You can have any woman in the entire city and all this time, you have been dwelling upon the memory of a woman you bedded. Unbelievable..." Edward assumed frustration quite apparent in his voice.

"I did not bed her. I have not even spoken a word to her," I quietly replied, feeling more ashamed at that fact than at anything else. I must have sounded incredibly bizarre to him. I turned away from him and drank deeply from my goblet as I saw the expression on his face. I did not want anything that I saw in his expression. Pity was for the weak, the vulnerable... I would never be weak. Not in his eyes, not in anyone's eyes.

"I do not understand. You have been upset all this time over a woman whom---- whom you have never encountered before?" he questioned, his voice sympathetic.

I still did not turn to him. "I do not need or desire your sympathy, Edward," I strongly asserted, before I finished the drink off.

"This woman... she is more exquisite than anyone I have ever seen. Everything about her is so..." I paused, trying to find words that could give an ounce of justification to her beauty.

"...I cannot even describe to you the effect she has had on me," I concluded, turning to him and looking him in the eye before I spoke again.

"She has haunted me for far too long. Every day I have searched for her, and every day, I have been burdened with the innermost form of disenchantment."

A very long silence resulted from my words. Speaking to Edward was as if I was speaking to a priest, confessing my innermost secrets to someone, praying for forgiveness. I did not seek forgiveness, however. I sought understanding. I sought answers. I sought this woman.

"You must find her, Carlisle. You cannot live like this any longer," he said. Although I anticipated his wisdom, I was rather annoyed with his blatantly simple response.

"I cannot find her, Edward! It is merely-"I began, before he interrupted me with a statement that silenced me altogether.

"Stop making scanty excuses, Carlisle. If you truly desire her, if you yearn for her as greatly as you say, you will find her somehow."

Those words remained with me for the following week, even though I had spoken to Edward and Bella twice after that visit. At first, his words infuriated me beyond belief. How dare he attempt to hastily understand my state! He had no right to pretend to understand the sickness I was experiencing. As I considered it more and more, I realized, as usual, he was entirely correct. I could not live the rest of my life with this woman's image plaguing my mind. I needed to find her, to experience her, and rid her of my life as I did all the rest.

For days, I meticulously searched the marketplace for her. Much to my discontent, however, I found no trace of her. I even resorted to asking random bystanders if they had ever seen this woman, but most had no idea who I was inquiring about, and found my question to augment the peculiar image I had strengthened during my time in self-exile.

Days turned into weeks, which quickly passed into another month. Searching for her did distract me during the day, but at night, I would dream of her. I soon became unable to sleep due to her image preoccupying me daily. Finally, one evening, I gave up attempting to sleep altogether, and sat at my easel until sunrise, sketching the image I had locked in my memory of her. More sketches continued, and soon, my slightly tarnished public image was fully resurrected.

I took my drawings down to the market to sell. Most people did not realize why I indeed sold most of my paintings. I sold the paintings and artwork I could part with; rarely did I ever create something that I could not part with. Therefore, rarely did I ever create something that I believed was so exquisite that I myself wanted to keep. I could understand why my artwork was appealing to the masses; it was aesthetically beautiful, created with expensive paint, and most importantly, I did not create a great deal of artwork. While these drawings were of the woman I regarded so highly of, they were not as superior to me as an actual painting of her would be. With her in front of my eyes, I am not sure what I would be capable of creating.

By the end of the week, I took the last of my drawings down to Tiepolo's stand. I greeted those who complimented me on my newest work with a smile and friendly words, but internally sought my quiet solitude once again. Unfortunately, Tiepolo was not in the best temperament when I arrived at his stand over a quarrel with his wife, and pleaded with me to guard the stand for a few hours. Although I did my utmost to ensure him of my inadequacies if I did stay, he was in such a state of distress he did not care, and I could not deny assisting him any longer.

Moments later, people flocked around the stand, impressed to see me out and about. I conversed with all of them over the morning and afternoon, their petty comments fuelling my depleted confidence ever so slightly. Every once in a while my eyes would wander mid-conversation, searching for the angel I longed for. When they did not find her, they refocused on whoever was speaking, giving them the attention they craved.

Evening came all too soon. The sun was beginning to set, and many of the shops had packed and left the square. Giving up the hope that Tiepolo would be back soon, I began to pack some of the items up. Most of my drawings had sold quickly, leaving only one I was reluctant to sell, that I chose to leave on display. With the sunset came increasing silence, and soon, the only sounds were the chatter of families eating their evening meals. I did not even notice the many graceful footsteps that quietly permeated through the night air.

"Good Lord," a soft voice said, in an undisputable northern-English accent. Immediately, I turned around, surprised to hear such an accent.

The sight in front of me nearly caused a complete psychological, emotional, and spiritual breakdown right then and there. It was her. It was the woman. She radiated in the darkening evening, her auburn hair in reality appearing the colour of rich caramel. Her skin was delectably unflawed and untouched by the sun. She stood there, in all of her supreme luminosity, the veil shifted off of her face to expose how perfect she was.

"This...this looks like..." she spoke, partly to herself, before she noticed I had turned and given her my absolute attention. As I broke my gaze from her amorous golden eyes, I noticed what had caught her attention. She had seen the sketch. My heart almost stopped as I realized that she began to realize it was her in the drawing.

"Is this... me?" she questioned, in poor Italian, as she pointed to herself, looking at me disbelievingly. I looked at her to reply, but my mind was simultaneously overwhelmed and blank at the same time. What was I to say? How would she react? As much as my mind worried over her reaction, my biggest fear right now was having her leave my sight.


End file.
